


On this One Day of Days

by Living_In_a_Fantasy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Historical Inaccuracy, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, References to War, Some sad bits but mostly happy, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_In_a_Fantasy/pseuds/Living_In_a_Fantasy
Summary: “What’s your favorite Christmas song?” Aziraphale asks, eyes twinkling from the wine and the white lights of the Christmas tree.Crowley could lie, could say anything really, but he’s considered this question before and the words slip past his lips without him even thinking about it. “Where are you Christmas.”“Oh.” Aziraphale’s smile dims, and it’s as if a star has gone out in the room. “Crowley.”---Crowley rather liked Christmas, despite everything.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 175





	On this One Day of Days

**Author's Note:**

> I love this fandom so much, you guys. And I love Christmas, so here's my traditional 'I like this thing let's mix it with Christmas' story.

Crowley rather liked Christmas, despite everything.

He’s been around for all of them, throughout all of human history. Both of them have. They’d been around back when Christmas hadn’t existed yet, and instead had been a pagan holiday celebrating the solstice. Despite enjoying Christmas, Crowley did like to bring that up to Aziraphale now and again, just to watch him get red in the face about it. He especially enjoyed bringing up Saturnalia, the Roman winter festival. It had been such a wild, hedonistic time, not just for the wealthy but for the slaves. The entire social order turned upside down as schools and businesses shut down so the people could indulge. Back in the day, Crowley had never allowed himself to miss it, unless pressed by Downstairs. Aziraphale had joined him once, and never again after that. The romans sure had known how to party.

The holy affair that those celebrations became seemed rather dull to Crowley, at the beginning. He just wasn’t all that excited about the birth of Christ, and really it just put him in a sour mood for a number of years. It reminded him of what he’d lost when he’d Fell, and he didn’t care to dwell on the past. Happily enough, those foul moods lasted only several decades.

If pressed to choose which Christmas had been the one that really changed his opinion on the holiday, Crowley would have to say it was Christmas of the year 762. It had been a quiet year, overall. Humans had just started to really embrace the whole Christianity thing, and Christmas had started to become a reality across much of the continent. By 762, Christmas had turned into a strange hybrid of what it was to become, and what Saturnalia used to be. He’d joined Aziraphale that Christmas day for a stroll around town as he waited for the humans to get out of church so the real fun could begin.

“At least humans are moving in the correct direction,” Aziraphale says, nodding with a bright smile at a family as they passed by and vanished into the church.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “It’s a lot less fun than the Roman celebrations.”

“Oh I never liked those,” Aziraphale says with a small frown. “They were just so…noisy.”

“Well now you just sound like Pliney,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale straightens. “I’ll take that as a compliment. He was a very wise, accomplished man.”

“He was also a _bore_.”

“Are you looking forward to the reveling of the humans later today?” Aziraphale asks, blatantly changing the subject. “It does seem rather up your alley.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at him. “I never knew you to turn down a good drink, angel.”

“Well I didn’t say I was turning you down,” Aziraphale says with a sniff. “I was merely pointing out that drunken revelry is more a demonic activity than an angelic one.”

“I mean if you don’t want to come…”

“I’m coming,” he said firmly. “If nothing else to…to prevent you from performing too many temptations to the humans on Christmas.”

And Aziraphale does join Crowley for an afternoon of drinking and dancing. He takes to the streets with the demon as serfs knock upon the doors of the rich and demand food and wine, else they cause some sort of mischief. It’s the first time Crowley ever sees Aziraphale properly drunk. He thinks the angel is rather beautiful, with his flushed cheeks and crinkled eyes.

That year, he comes to the conclusion that Christmas really wasn’t all that bad after all.

* * *

“Really, I know this was your doing,” Aziraphale says as he and Crowley stand among the crowds in the town square.

The year is 1022, and this year’s Lord of Misrule has just been selected. The jester is just now taking to the streets, calling out ridiculous command after ridiculous demand. His favorite one, it seems, is commanding people to copy his strange dance moves, accompanied by a lute that is playing from somewhere farther down the street.

“I have nothing to do with this,” Crowley says, grinning at the jester’s antics. “Humans came up with this one all on their own.”

Aziraphale hums, unconvinced.

“Oh come on angel,” Crowley says, grin widening. “You must think it better from those rowdy celebrations years ago. This is progress, is it not?”

“I take no issues with humans celebrating,” Aziraphale says, and if Crowley didn’t know better he would say the angel is pouting. “I just don’t see the appeal of these antics.”

Crowley considers him for another moment, and as Aziraphale talks, gives a small wave of his hand, willing the jester to move closer. It’s impossible to hide his wicked smirk as the jester approaches, telling Aziraphale that he must run in place while singing along with a rather lewd Christmas song.

He’s hesitant, but relents. Crowley’s never laughed so hard in his life.

* * *

It’s 1349, and the month of fasting leading up to Christmas has had less to do with preparation for the coming of God, and more to do with the absence of food. The Black Death has a firm hold on Europe. Food is scarce, and bodies have been piling up in the streets for the past several months, with not enough of the living to take them to a place of rest.

The stench of death lies heavy in the air, and Crowley feels he could choke on it. He may be a demon, sure, but even demons have their limits when it comes to torment. What this disease has done to the humans is on par with the torment they may expect in Hell, with skin turning black as tissue dies and massive, sickening tumors growing atop their skin. It is relentless and makes Crowley’s skin crawl.

When he spots him that Christmas day, Aziraphale’s arms are filled with loaves of bread and blocks of cheese. His face is ashen, and for a wild moment Crowley finds himself checking the angel over for signs of the plague, looking for any of that dead, black tissue or flushed coloring or unnatural bumps along his skin.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and he sounds so lost that Crowley wants nothing more than to miracle them from this place to somewhere else, anywhere else, anywhere that isn’t tinged with the scent of death. “I wish I could help them. Heaven is so pleased, as people turn to the church during this terrible time, and I want to heal them but there’s just _so many._ ”

Aziraphale’s eyes are glistening and Crowley has to look away. “Let’s hand out that food, angel,” he says. “I’m sure people will be grateful for it.”

Crowley accompanies Aziraphale until his arms are empty. He knows he shouldn’t be pleased to watch the humans’ eyes light up when presented with food – rather he should be breaking into homes to take what they have left – but Hell doesn’t know what it’s like, watching children cry over their dead parents and humans begging any God who may be listening for mercy.

But She isn’t listening, can’t be, and they continue to suffer.

“Join me for dinner?” Crowley asks. The sun is growing low in the sky, and he hopes to salvage at least some part of this day. If nothing else he could use a drink. He frowns as they pass an alley, cutting Aziraphale off as he ducks inside.

A young girl, eyes glassy, is gasping for breath. She’s dressed in rags and curled along the side of a building. Her head lulls in their direction as they step into the shadows, and Aziraphale inhales sharply. She can’t be more than eight years old, and her skin bares the obvious marks of the plague. Crowley knows, with no more than a glance, that she will die tonight.

But today is Christmas, dammit, and he’ll be blessed if he’s going to leave this little girl to die alone in this alleyway. If She won’t save her, he will.

Before Aziraphale can speak, Crowley crosses the road to kneel before the young girl. He places a hand gently against her forehead. It’s burning with fever, but her skin is dry as bone. She’s so ill, and it’s been a long time since he’s done this, but soon her skin is gaining a more natural hue and her temperature is cooling. Her eyes begin to clear, and they turn, wide-eyed at Crowley.

He stands, stepping back to stand beside Aziraphale. “The church should be holding service,” he tells her. “Go to them, they can help.”

She nods, awed, and scampers down the alley and into the street.

Aziraphale stares at him, opening his mouth and closing it several times before speaking. “Crowley-“

“Dinner?” he interrupts. He doesn’t want to explain himself to Aziraphale, doesn’t want to think too hard on it himself. It’s something that’s been growing, somewhere deep and buried, something he knows he’ll need to confront at some point, but he’s not ready to deal with it. Not yet. “I’ll bet that little place you like still has some mince pies left.”

And Aziraphale smiles, that soft, _beautiful_ smile that reminds Crowley of starlight, and suggests they make it a habit of meeting for Christmas every year. Crowley is happy to oblige.

* * *

In 1644, Christmas is cancelled.

It is, quite literally, cancelled. Oliver Cromwell and his fanatic Puritan followers gain control of England and decide England has been a bit too happy, thanks, with their luxury goods and celebrations. Crowley can’t stand the Puritans – they’re a joyless, miserable lot who wish unhappiness on all people in the name of God. That She would think a celebration like Christmas was a sin is laughable. Crowley knows for a fact that some of their companions are already being tormented in Hell.

It’s Christmas Eve, and the streets are filled with town criers, screaming and threatening people who sing carols or carry mince pies. Crowley knows that he and God no longer have a great working relationship, but he’s fairly certain She would not approve of the way that crier was yelling at that little girl for dancing in the street.

The Puritans, he thinks, are some of the cruelest followers of God he has ever met. He’s eager for their sway to fade.

In the meantime, however, he has a dinner to make. He spares a short glance at the public square, where several people are locked in the stocks. He has to take a quick look around (because these Puritans are obsessed with hunting demons and witches, which isn’t stressful exactly, but certainly annoying, and he has places to be) before waving a hand to release the humans, who scamper off.

It takes Crowley only a few minutes to reach Aziraphale’s home. He gives a sharp knock on the door, tapping his foot impatiently. One of the criers is getting closer, and he can’t be responsible for his actions if that man dares to raise a voice to him.

The door opens. Aziraphale’s smile brightens upon seeing him, and Crowley’s heart swells as the angel stands aside to let him in.

The home is small and cozy. Crowley can smell the simmering meat from here. “I brought the wine,” he says, tugging it from his bag with a triumphant smile.

“Oh Crowley, you know we’re not meant to be drinking,” he says, taking the bottle. But he’s smiling, already moving to the kitchen to retrieve glasses.

“We aren’t supposed to be eating boar on Christmas Eve, or the plum pudding for that matter.”

The room seems to grow brighter at the mention of the dessert. “Oh, you brought it!”

“Just a small demonic miracle,” Crowley says with a smirk. “Hopefully next year Christmas will be back to normal and we can go out to dinner, instead of cooking it ourselves.”

“Oh it’s not so bad,” Aziraphale says. “I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

Crowley snaps his fingers, lowering the flames that have started to climb from the fireplace to burn against the meat. The skin is only slightly singed. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

* * *

Crowley is rather pleased with himself Christmas Day of 1823.

He may not have been able to tempt Episcopal minister Clement Clarke Moore from the church and into the hands of Hell (though if he was being honest, he wasn’t trying terribly hard), but he had been instrumental in helping him come up with a poem for his children, “A Visit from St. Nicholas.” While the stories of the famous saint had begun to twist under human hands already, Crowley’s interference in this particular poem had been vital. Just several months ago had seen him back in Hell, bragging about how the humans now believed the saint had little to do with religion and more to do with a fat man who delivered gifts. “Don’t you see?” he’d said to his unimpressed fellow demons, “how this will impact the economy? It will turn Christmas into a celebration about gifts, instead of God!”

They hadn’t seemed to understand. Crowley is unsurprised, but irritated that his hard work so often goes unappreciated. He’s picked up a copy of the poem to take to Aziraphale, who he hopes will appreciate the literacy value of the poem, if nothing else.

“Twas the night before Christmas,” he recites to himself as he loops through the streets of New England. He isn’t very impressed with America, if he were to be honest, and would be rather glad when Aziraphale decided to go back to England.

Not that he stayed just for the angel, of course. But if he was going to be here, the least Crowley could do was follow to make it difficult for him.

Aziraphale is residing in a small house made of old timber. Crowley wrinkles his nose as he approaches. Really, they had lived in the heart of London so recently, with Aziraphale in his bookshop and Crowley in a very nice flat. And they’ve traded it for…this. Soon both of them will put America behind them – in fact Crowley is hoping this Christmas will be the last they spend in this wretched country.

Though Crowley does have to admit, the meshing of different European cultures has made Christmas an interesting affair on this side of the Atlantic. Americans have mixed church with evergreen trees decorated with candles, with feasts and gifts and all manner of things. It’s one of the few things he has enjoyed about America, and he hopes these traditions are becoming more commonplace across all of Europe.

Aziraphale is slow to answer the door, so Crowley lets himself in. “I’m here, angel,” he calls, closing the door against most of the wind (and throwing in a little demonic miracle to keep the rest of the cold air out. The craftmanship here leaves many things to be desired). A fire is blazing in the hearth, though Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen. Crowley discards his coat and sprawls across a chair near the fireplace, practically melting into it. Winters in America are truly unbearable.

“Is that you Crowley?” he hears from another room.

“Sure is,” Crowley drawls, shifting to get more comfortable. The fire is so warm. Is it possible for fire to be this warm, or had it been a small miracle of Aziraphale’s?

“I’ll just be a moment, I’m running a tad behind I’m afraid.”

“Take your time.” Crowley tosses the poem to the closest table and leans back, letting his eyes flutter shut. There’s far too much snow in America – it has no business being this cold. He doesn’t relish going back out there when Aziraphale has finished getting ready.

If only they could have someone bring the dinner to _them_ , then he’d not have to move from this glorious fire.

By the time Aziraphale makes it into the main room, Crowley is fast asleep, his limbs splayed ridiculously across the chair, face pointed at the fire. A small, fond smile lights the angel’s face. He retrieves the blanket from his bed and carefully tucks it in around Crowley, then sits down to read the poem.

Years later, patrons will be very impressed to see a framed, original printing of what would later be titled “The Night Before Christmas.”

* * *

A few years later they’re back in London, and Crowley couldn’t be happier. He loves the crowds on the streets, the constant threat of carriages, and though he is loath to admit it, the smell of Aziraphale’s bookshop.

It’s early on Christmas morning, and the streets are beginning to bustle with people heading to church and to meet with their families. A small group of carolers are passing in the street. They’re not too bad, though a bit out of tune.

Aziraphale wants to stop by the local church to offer a couple of blessings before they pick up some things for their Christmas festivities. Crowley has ensured that a plump goose will be waiting for them at Aziraphale’s favorite butcher shop (the owner, a jolly Scandinavian man, had the most incredible bacon so Crowley can only imagine the goose will be excellent as well).

Crowley’s holding a small wrapped parcel, unusually nervous. He’s never bought a gift before, but he’d seen it and hadn’t been able to leave it. He knows Aziraphale will love it.

Small snowflakes have started drifting from the sky, lazy and gentle. Crowley has to admit they are rather pretty, especially against the greenery outside, though he’s pleased to slip into the bookshop.

Aziraphale emerges from the back room wearing a bright smile and what is clearly a new coat, without a speck of dirt on it. It’s still that tan color he seems to favor, but it’s tailored exceptionally well. “Crowley, Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” he returns. Aziraphale does look rather good in this century, Crowley is finding, and it’s difficult to tear his eyes away. He extends the parcel to Aziraphale. “For you.”

“Oh,” he says, eyes brightening. “A gift? Crowley, we’ve never exchanged gifts before.”

“It’s not a big deal, angel,” he drawls, though his heart is beating rapidly in his chest.

“I’m afraid I didn’t get you anything, my dear,” Aziraphale says, taking the gift with a touch so gentle, you’d think he was holding a pane of thin glass. “Thank you very much.”

“Are you going to open it?” Crowley pushes.

“Oh yes, of course,” Aziraphale says as he painstakingly unties the ribbon and carefully tugs off the packaging so it won’t rip. Crowley’s about ready to rip it from his hands and open it himself when the final layer of paper comes off. Aziraphale’s mouth opens in a small, awed expression. “Oh Crowley,” he says. His voice sends a pleasant shiver down Crowley’s spine. “These sweets are beautiful.”

“Thought you might like them,” Crowley says with a smile. “They’re calling them chocolates, like those sweet drinks you like so much, just in solid form.”

Aziraphale plucks one from the package, observing it from all sides before taking a bite. His eyes close and a small moan passes through his lips. Crowley almost chokes on thin air.

“Oh these are wonderful,” Aziraphale enthuses. “Thank you.”

“Happy to, really. Ready to do your blessings?” Crowley says, hoping it doesn’t sound as frazzled out loud as it does in his head. “Don’t want to be late.”

Aziraphale watches him through narrowed eyes. “Are you planning to tempt these people as I do?”

“It’s Christmas,” Crowley says, opening the door with a flourish. “I’m taking the day off.”

Aziraphale tips his hat at him and steps out, Crowley locking the door behind them with a wave of his hand. The baker from down the street nods at them as he passes. Church bells are ringing down the road. Aziraphale’s smile grows and he loops his arm through Crowley’s, perfectly normal for this decade, but it makes Crowley’s heart leap in his chest in an uncomfortable, but very pleasant way.

“Oh I do hope we are able to purchase plum pudding,” Aziraphale says as they walk. “I cannot believe I forgot to get the ingredients, and we simply won’t have time after church.”

“I’m sure someone will have it,” Crowley says, not because he has faith in the wares of the Victorian people, but because he will ensure it happens even if it takes a demonic miracle. He shudders as a snowflake strikes him in the eye. “Come on, the snow is picking up.”

Crowley leaves Aziraphale at the steps of the church and takes shelter in the nearby shops, open in the morning for last-minute shopping. It’s as he’s leaving one of said shops with a very nice bottle of wine that he nearly runs over two small children darting by. He curses, barely regaining his balance by the time a man races from a nearby shop, shouting after the children.

It takes mere moments for Crowley to take in the scene – two children, dressed in little more than rags, a loaf of bread clutched in the boy’s hands, and the very angry shopkeeper. Crowley smoothly slinks into the shopkeeper’s path, tilting his hat. “Happy Christmas.” The shopkeeper tries to move past, but Crowley steps with him, a smile on his lips. “It’s only proper to return the greeting, don’t you think?”

“Those little wretches stole from my shop!”

“Those children,” Crowley says pointedly, “sure look like they could benefit from a bit of bread on Christmas Day.”

“How dare-“ the man sputters.

Crowley pulls several shillings from his pocket, pushing them into the man’s hands. “I think this should more than cover it,” he says, nodding back towards the vacated shop. “Off you go.”

The shopkeeper grumbles but seems mollified, stomping back towards his shop as he mutters under his breath. Honestly, Crowley thinks, humans don’t need any help from him. They’re very good at sinning all on their own.

“That was very kind, Crowley.”

Crowley nearly jumps at the familiar voice behind him (though he never would, because he’s a demon, not a spooked deer) and turns to face Aziraphale, who has that brilliant smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. Crowley clears his throat and offers the bottle to Aziraphale. He hates himself for how pleased he is by the angel’s reaction. “Letting children get away with thievery? It will only lead to a life of crime,” he dismisses, turning to walk towards the marketplace. “Come along, can’t keep our goose or pudding waiting.”

Aziraphale is smiling so widely, Crowley can feel it on his back. It’s still there by the time they get back to Aziraphale’s bookshop and, Crowley thinks, delirious with drink and rich food, he’d do anything to keep seeing that smile directed at him.

* * *

It’s 1914, and Crowley and Aziraphale are separated for Christmas.

World War I had started just five months ago. It’s the first war of such a scale on Earth, and both Heaven and Hell have orders for their respective parties. Aziraphale is heartbroken by the war, and dives into his heavenly work with determination. Crowley, who has been instructed to incite additional violence, no matter the side it comes from, is showing much less enthusiasm.

It’s Christmas, and he’s stuck in the trenches, ordered to sway the tides of battle so both sides continue fighting and killing for as long as possible. The trenches are nothing but misery and cold mud, and a recent dusting of snow was only making Crowley more miserable.

Across the way, the German trenches are slowly lighting up, and Crowley curses under his breath. He wonders if it’s warmer over there, and if he’s chosen the wrong side to spend the night. He can’t believe that just a few years earlier he was arguing with Aziraphale about the recent changes in art in Paris, and now here he is, shivering and miserable in a _trench_.

It takes him a moment to hear it over the clattering of his own teeth, but faintly in the distance Crowley can make out the sound of singing. He frowns, straining his ears, and is able to make out the faint sound of…Silent Night?

Others have taken notice, and soon his side has taken up a poorly tuned rendition of The First Noel. The carol singing traded back and forth, until, inexplicitly, a man a few feet down from Crowley gasps, “Someone is coming over!”

Hands went for guns, not raising them yet, but cautious, lines strained with worry. But just moments later a distinctly familiar voice calls “Merry Christmas!”

“Angel?” he mutters, getting to his feet before even realizing he’s doing it. And sure enough, there’s his angel, standing at the edge of the barbed wire, shouting “Merry Christmas” over and over.

The idiot was going to get himself discorporated. Crowley steps from the trench (it’s more of an inelegant climb) and quickly crosses No Man’s Land. Behind Aziraphale, several more men are climbing from the trenches to join him, and Crowley can hear footsteps behind him as well.

Aziraphale is filthy; he’s coated with mud, clothes torn and stained, but he beams as recognition lights his eyes. “Oh, Crowley,” he says, voice joyful and full and so very _Aziraphale_. It’s the first spark of anything good Crowley has seen in months, and before he notices he’s moving, he’s pulled Aziraphale into a tight embrace.

The angel stiffens in his arms, and for a horrible moment Crowley thinks he’s made the biggest mistake of his life, including the Fall, but the stiffness fades as quickly as it came as Aziraphale returns the embrace. “It’s _so_ good to see you,” he says, warmth breath tickling Crowley’s ear. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, angel,” Crowley chokes out. In all these years they’ve touched plenty, but they’ve never hugged like this. It’s warm; it feels safe and complete and so _right_ that it makes Crowley dizzy.

It takes him a solid two minutes to realize that men around them have begun embracing and clasping hands, exchanging what limited words they are able. There are literally hundreds of troops roaming No Man’s Land with their enemies, the hesitant caution giving way to smiles and even laughter.

After far too long but not nearly long enough, Aziraphale releases him, stepping back just enough to make eye contact. His eyes are so beautiful. Crowley had forgotten just _how_ beautiful.

“So,” he coughs, because he has a reputation to keep up that he’s currently ruining, “I’m guessing this is all your doing.”

“All this?”

Crowley gestures around them. Carols are still being sung, and from here he can see there’s even several Christmas trees on the German side. Someone has produced a football, and men from _both_ sides are exchanging kicks that seem to rapidly be turning into a proper game. “The singing, the…I don’t know, what is this? A temporary truce?”

“Well,” says Aziraphale says thoughtfully, “I did start singing, but it’s Christmas after all. It only seemed polite to acknowledge it.”

If Crowley were to do his job properly, what he would do now is attack Aziraphale on the spot – run back to the trenches and grab a gun, and start shooting amidst the peace. Start some sort of altercation, at least.

But Crowley, he’s come to understand, is not very good at being a demon, and simply sees no reason to do any such thing.

He spends the rest of Christmas in conversation with Aziraphale. Once Christmas passes the war continues in earnest, a terrible, bloody war that causes countless casualties and terrible, inhuman acts. But the Christmas Truce of 1914, as it comes to be called, reminds all of humanity, and an angel and demon, that there is still good out there, even amidst war.

* * *

1945 is the first Christmas since the end of World War II, and both the angel and demon can’t be more grateful.

The 1900s have been…rough, on both of them. For many reasons, between the two of them and between the many countries of the world. The concentration camps had been a nearly insurmountable test of faith for Aziraphale, and Crowley was sickened to see atrocities he’d expect in Hell being done topside, with no one doing anything about it.

So now that the war is over, both of them are looking forward to being able to sit down and have a drink, without working or avoiding work and hopefully without avoiding each other’s eyes, as they’ve been like to do since the holy water incident. Crowley is feeling a bit nervous about it all, actually.

Crowley’s been with Aziraphale since the night before. They’ve not talked much, simply enjoying each other’s company in a sort of stifled way. Crowley understands why Aziraphale’s been upset about the holy water, but he’s not asked the angel for many favors over the past 5,000+ years. He doesn’t see what the big deal is.

“Does it ever bother you?” Aziraphale asks suddenly. He’s not looking at Crowley, eyes on the tea in his hands.

Crowley frowns, jerked from his thoughts. “Does what bother me?”

“The quiet.”

The strange thing is, it _does_. The past few years have been so noisy, filled with gunfire and bombs, announcements and sirens. Sometimes the only time it’s _been_ quiet has been as people waited in complete silence, waiting to see if the next dropped bomb would land on them.

“…Yeah, sometimes.” He takes a long swig from his cup. You’d think, after spending so long on Earth, both of them would stop being so surprised by the tragedies of humans.

Crowley can’t predict how long it will take for England, or anywhere else to recover. Even months later, basic goods are in short display. But there’s such hope in the country now. Crowley knows he shouldn’t enjoy it as much as he does.

There’s a lot of things he shouldn’t enjoy as much as he does.

“Do you ever wonder,” Aziraphale says in a soft, lurching voice, “what it means that this keeps… _happening_?”

Crowley’s eyes snap up to Aziraphale, but the angel isn’t looking at him, still studiously observing his tea. “I think,” Crowley says at last, “that She would probably want you to see how humans keep going on. Despite it all.”

Aziraphale looks up at him finally. His eyes are bright, and he opens his mouth, hesitating but clearly wanting to say something-

A sudden clang rings through the air, causing both of them to jump. Their eyes meet, and a smile begins to build on Aziraphale’s face. The ringing continues, louder and louder from every direction. It’s the church bells.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Church bells haven’t rung in England on Christmas Day since 1938 – not since they were banned during the war. Crowley stands, almost as if compelled, and moves to the door. He hears Aziraphale follow. They both venture into the street, not pausing for a coat, and they’re not the only ones. Everywhere, all along the street, people are emerging, casting eyes towards the churches. The bells are so loud they’re nearly deafening, but Crowley can see the laughter on people’s lips, the lit smiles, can _feel_ the joy in the air in a way he hasn’t before, or at least, not in a very long time. Can feel it coming from Aziraphale.

In a way, it’s the best Christmas he’s ever had.

* * *

By 2005, Aziraphale and Crowley have fallen back into their familiar patterns. There are still atrocities in the world, but the scale seems at least a little bit smaller. Amazingly, World War II is largely forgotten in day to day life, despite how recent it really is.

That suits Crowley just fine, who is sprawling across the sofa in Aziraphale’s back room, glass of wine in hand. He’s not interested in venturing out into the streets of London tonight – it’s started snowing out there, and Aziraphale’s bookshop is pleasantly warm, and he’s going on about some first edition he’s missed out on.

“-It’s the _only_ surviving manuscript of _Paradise Lost_ ,” Aziraphale continues. “And alright, yes, I _know_ it belongs in a museum, but really, if it was being sold at auction there’s no reason I shouldn’t have had it. If I’d not been distracted by that man’s plot to commit thievery of the next item on the docket…”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupts with a fond smile, “you realize you could always…”

Aziraphale frowns. “I’m not going to _steal_ it from a _museum_ , Crowley.”

The demon shrugs and sips from his glass, rolling his eyes into the back of his head as another religious Christmas song begins to play on the radio. “Oh come on, let’s get to one of the good ones!”

Aziraphale glares at him in that way he always does when Crowley is being purposefully difficult. “These songs are beautiful.”

“Yeah, but they’re not _fun_ ,” Crowley says. “Now Santa Baby, there’s a good song.”

“I can’t believe you helped write that,” Aziraphale complains. “It’s wholly inappropriate.”

Crowley smirks at him, teeth flashing from behind the wine glass. “Been an angel all year,” he croons.

“Stop that.” But Aziraphale is smiling. Crowley smirks, and with a quick wave static shoots from the radio, just for a moment, before Santa Baby begins to play in the middle of the song, tuned in from a station in Sussex. “Oh, Crowley.”

“Come and trim my Christmas tree,” he sings, setting his glass aside and sitting up. “With some decorations bought at Tiffany.”

“You’re absolutely absurd,” Aziraphale says, but his cheeks are flushed.

Crowley slides from the sofa. He’s feeling brave, from the wine or the red of the angel’s cheeks, he’s not sure. Later, he won’t be able to say what prompts him to strut towards Aziraphale, hips swaying. “I really do, believe in you,” he sings, voice low and sultry as he plucks the wine glass from Aziraphale’s fingertips. “Let’s see if you…believe in me.” He winks and gulps down the rest of the wine.

Aziraphale seems to be at a loss for words. Crowley laughs and drops to the seat beside him, a mess of sprawled limbs. The angel’s thigh is warm against his own, and he thinks, just for tonight, that he can pretend what he feels for Aziraphale is alright, could work out for him somehow. “You can’t tell me it’s not more entertaining than, I don’t know, Little Drummer Boy.”

“That’s not the point,” Aziraphale says, but he’s still smiling, cheeks pleasantly rosy and lips stained with wine, and what Crowley wouldn’t give to lean forward and taste that wine on his lips, even just once.

Crowley crushes that thought and buries it, deep, deep down, before his addled brain can try and act on it. “Do you have a favorite?” he asks. It comes out more like a squawk, but to his relief Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hm.” Aziraphale chews on his bottom lip which is…not helping. “I enjoy rather a lot of them,” he says, “but if pressed to choose I think I’d choose Silent Night.”

Crowley groans, mostly out of obligation, and pours more wine into Aziraphale’s glass, keeping it for himself.

“What’s your favorite Christmas song?” Aziraphale asks, eyes twinkling from the wine and the white lights of the Christmas tree.

Crowley could lie, could say anything really, but he’s considered this question before and the words slip past his lips without him even thinking about it. “Where are you Christmas.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s smile dims, and it’s as if a star has gone out in the room. “Crowley.”

Crowley takes another long swig from his wine glass (a waste of a truly remarkable vintage, but he needs to do something stall long enough to give himself a good scolding (why did you say that? He didn’t want a real answer) while also trying to find a way to salvage the situation) and leans back against the sofa with a smirk. “And that Hawaii one.”

Aziraphale blinks at him. “The Hawaii one?”

“You know,” he says, gesturing vaguely with the wine glass, “that molatamikilaka Hawaiian Christmas day one. From that scene in Christmas Vacation.”

“From what?”

“The film, angel.”

“I don’t know it.” Aziraphale is smiling, a small little thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What makes you like that song so much?”

“Baking on a sun by the ocean doesn’t sound like a fun Christmas to you?” Crowley asks. “Maybe a couple of those complicated drinks with all the fruit juice mixed in? The waves and the sand?”

“Oh I don’t know, I think I’d miss my bookshop,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve gotten quite used to our Christmas celebrations happening here, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Crowley says. He reaches for the wine bottle. “More wine?”

Aziraphale lets the subject of the song drop, but they both know he’s not forgotten. The next time the song plays over the speakers, hours and another bottle of wine later, he flinches.

* * *

  
This, Crowley thinks, surely must be the best Christmas they’ve ever had, and it’s not even started yet.

It’s Christmas Eve of 2019. Snowflakes are falling from the sky, creating a blinding display of white. It’s not often that London has a white Christmas, but for once Crowley doesn’t mind the snow. The snow and the cold is just another part of the world that he can still experience, now that they’ve stopped it from ending.

Even so, he keeps the parcel close to his side. He can’t go dropping Aziraphale’s gift in the snow, and there’s a thin layer ice from today’s earlier sleet. The humans are rushing by with heads ducked against the wind, collars pulled tight along their necks.

They have no idea how close they all came to dying, how grateful they should be for the bad weather.

He can see the lights of Aziraphale’s bookshop in the distance, warm and inviting. His pace quickens, heart beating just a little bit faster in his chest. It really has no business doing so, he sees the angel most days, ever since the apocalypse-that-wasn’t. He’d seen the angel just this past Friday; they had gone to their favorite Christmas market for overpriced hot cocoa and enjoyed a pleasant, if chilly walk along the Thames. Aziraphale’s cheeks had been flushed from the cold, and Crowley’s had flushed for entirely different reasons when he shivered and Aziraphale put an arm around him.

They’ve been touching a lot more often now that the world hasn’t ended. He doesn’t know what to make of it, and he’s still afraid to ask.

Crowley can see Christmas lights twinkling inside the shop. He ignores the ‘Closed’ sign – the door always opens for him anyway, and steps inside, shaking off the snow and brushing it from his hair.

Christmas music is playing softly from the back room. Crowley follows it, abandoning his wet shoes by the side of the door. He lets out a sigh of contentment, the warmth of the shop sinking into his bones like a hot bath. He wonders if Aziraphale had warmed up the shop with a small miracle when he saw the snow – it’s far warmer than the angel usually keeps it.

“Crowley is that you?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Unless you’re giving your shop permission to unlock for anyone, nowadays.”

Aziraphale comes around the corner, smiling brightly. “I was wondering when you’d drop by,” he says. “I’ve already pulled out a bottle of Chateau Margaux from 1787. I figure our first Christmas after stopping the end of the world deserved something nice.”

Crowley’s lips quirk up. “No complaints here.”

“You are planning to spend the night, correct?” Aziraphale asks. “There is a lovely place that does Christmas brunch just up the road, and I thought we could go in the morning.”

“Yes,” Crowley says, trying to keep his voice level and to stop it from increasing in pitch. Aziraphale doesn’t sleep usually, and Crowley doesn’t sleep nightly, but spending the night is intimate. It’s something they don’t do very often.

Aziraphale beams, and Crowley is incredibly grateful he’s wearing his sunglasses. “Brought you something,” he says, holding up the wrapped gift.

“A gift?” the angel asks. “That’s very kind of you, my dear. I’m afraid I have nothing for you.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Crowley says with forced nonchalance.

Aziraphale comes forward and takes it, their fingers brushing just slightly and sending an electric current from Crowley’s fingers, up his arm and down his spine. He coughs to hide a shiver and takes a step back with a smile. “Go ahead and open it.”

“Oh alright,” Aziraphale says. “Come on back, I’ve poured the wine already.”

Crowley follows Aziraphale to the back room, finding that indeed, a glass of wine is waiting on the end table. He sits down, taking the glass and swirling it gently. Aziraphale takes a seat beside him on the sofa, fingers sliding underneath the ribbon to tug it off gently.

His fingers move deftly, unfolding the paper and setting it aside. He opens the box, fingers stilling as he stares down at its contents.

Crowley takes a sip of wine, forcing himself not to look away. “What do you think?”

“Is this…is this what I think it is Crowley?”

Crowley hums.

Aziraphale reaches into the box with meticulous ease. The paper is incredibly old, the writing beautiful and clearly crafted with love. “This…is this _Paradise Lost_? Did you steal _Paradise Lost_ from The Pierpont Morgan Library and Museum of New York?”

Crowley takes another small sip of his wine. “I left a very convincing copy in its place, no one will be any the wiser.”

“Crowley! You shouldn’t have,” Aziraphale says, but his eyes haven’t left the manuscript, fingers ever so gently brushing the pages. His voice is soft and awed, and Crowley can’t stop a smile.

“You’ve been talking about it for years,” Crowley says. “Besides, that’s a precious item. Better keep it in careful hands.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, but he nods slowly, finally lifting his head to meet Crowley’s eyes. “Thank you very much, my dear,” he says, and his voice holds so much Crowley needs to look away. “I love it.”

“It was no trouble.” It had, in fact, been a lot of trouble, but it was worth it to make the angel look at him like that.

He can feel Aziraphale’s smile even as he stares into his wine. “I’ll go set this somewhere safe, and I’ll be right back.” Crowley listens as his footsteps pat away quietly, and lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’s been holding.

They’ve been through so much together, over the past 6,000 years. They’ve stopped Armageddon, and even escaped punishment from their respective sides. If they can do all that, Crowley reasons, he should be able to tell the angel how much he loves him. He knows Aziraphale, knows he probably can’t reciprocate, knows that telling him may be ‘too fast’, but he’s not sure how much longer he can hold it in. Maybe if he just says it, just so the angel knows, he’ll be able to move past it.

As long as he emphasizes that nothing has to change, and that he expects nothing from Aziraphale. Just that he needs him to know, to understand that Crowley will do absolutely anything Aziraphale wants.

He’s been thinking about how to verbalize his feelings for the past 2,000 years or so, but that’s apparently done him absolutely no good because by the time Aziraphale returns, he still has nothing and his mouth has grown uncomfortably dry.

Aziraphale sits closer than normal, their legs almost brushing, holding his own glass of wine now. He’s gone all out for the decorations, Crowley notices, mostly to distract himself from the dizziness he’s feeling at how close the angel is. “Now, what do you think of the wine?” Aziraphale says. He takes a drink from his glass. The wine lingers on his lips. The fairy lights are twinkling behind him, and Aziraphale almost seems to be glowing.

How can one being be so beautiful?

Aziraphale’s head tilts to the right, a minute action, eyes crinkling in concern. “Crowley?”

“What?” He realizes he’s been staring and quickly busies himself with his wine. “Oh yes, very…nice.” He has no idea what he’s agreeing with, but agreeing with Aziraphale is usually a safe bet.

Aziraphale is watching him, eyes considering, and he takes another sip from his glass. “I rather think so.” He sets the glass on the end table with a small, content sigh. “I’m so glad to be here with you, Crowley,” he says. “Part of me still can’t believe we made it through all of that.”

“You and me both.” ‘Have yourself a merry little Christmas’ has started playing over the radio. With the soft howling of the wind from outside and the twinkling lights and Aziraphale’s smile, God, that _smile_ , She had no business making an angel’s smile brighter and warmer than the stars themselves. It’s all so stupidly romantic, which is ridiculous because they’ve done exactly this before, have spent hundreds if not thousands of Christmases together, so there’s no reason for his chest to feel so warm, or for Crowley to find himself leaning closer, getting lost in those eyes but never wanting to escape them. “Aziraphale,” he breathes.

Aziraphale is watching him, calm, hands folded on his lap. “Yes, my dear?”

He opens his mouth but the words catch on his tongue, panic rising from deep in his chest to clench around his heart and lungs, tightening over his vocal chords until he’s unable to speak. What if Aziraphale is disgusted by him? Or asks him to leave? What if this makes everything awkward? What would be the point of saving the world, if he confesses now and loses Aziraphale forever? He can’t lose him, _won’t_ lose him.

Just having this is better than having nothing at all. “T-the shop,” he sputters out. “You’ve made the…shop look really. Good.”

Aziraphale watches him for a long, drawn-out moment. Crowley can’t breathe, muscles tensed and ready to flee, excuses already on his lips. But Aziraphale just _smiles_ , this beautiful little smile, and leans closer.

Their lips touch; Aziraphale’s are warm and dry. Crowley’s eyes flutter closed instinctively. It’s the smallest of brushes, chaste and sweet, but in it Crowley feels so…much. It’s everything he ever wanted and more than he could have imagined. Aziraphale pulls back, slow, and presses their foreheads together. “Oh, my Crowley,” he whispers, and there’s such fondness in his voice Crowley thinks he could cry, “I do love you so very much.”

The breath catches in his throat and for a moment, his mind is blank. He can’t even smile. Because there’s no way he’s heard that correctly, no way Aziraphale means it the way he hopes ( _prays_ ) it means. “You.” He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, but the words come tumbling out on their own. “But I’m _in love_ with you and…you mean the angelic way, right?”

Aziraphale leans back and Crowley follows, immediately craving that warmth back, but Aziraphale doesn’t go. He reaches for Crowley’s glasses and tugs them gently from his face, setting them on the table without looking away from Crowley’s eyes. Crowley can’t look away, frozen under that gaze. “I mean,” Aziraphale says, voice soft, “that I love you in every way there is to love.” He kisses the corner of Crowley’s lips. “I love you as my best friend, as my family.” His lips brush his cheekbone. “I love you as one of Her creations.” Aziraphale’s lips find his, and the kiss is longer, deeper, and Crowley finds himself sinking into it until the angel pulls away again. “And I mean it romantically. I want to kiss you and hold your hand.” He reaches for Crowley’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “I want to take you to bed and make love to you. I will Fall for you, if that’s what I must do.” The corners of Crowley’s eyes have started to sting, his throat tight. Aziraphale smiles at him again, fingertips brushing against his jaw. “I am so very sorry that it took me so long, my love. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

Crowley laughs, or maybe it’s a sob, he’s not sure, and launches himself into Aziraphale’s arms, kissing those perfect lips and finally _letting go_. “Angel,” he breathes. “Oh, angel, I’ve loved you for…for so long.”

“I know,” he says against Crowley’s lips. “I’ve known for a while, my dear, I just wasn’t ready. And I’m so sorry for that, I truly am.”

Crowley kisses him again. It’s better than he could have imagined. Aziraphale’s hands brush against his shoulder blades and along his side. He shives under his touch. “I love you.” The words taste sweeter than the finest wine.

“I love you, Crowley.” Aziraphale presses closer, hand cupping the back of Crowley’s head as he lowers him to lay across the couch. “I will never leave you,” he promises. “I’ll never let you be lonely again.”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley wants to laugh and cry, to clutch the angel to him and never let him go. He can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe Aziraphale is reaching for his coat and tugging it from his shoulders, fingers going for the buttons of his shirt next.

“My Crowley,” he whispers. “You’re so beautiful.” His lips find Crowley’s neck, then collarbone. “I must confess even when I knew, when I was ready…” He reaches for the buttons of Crowley’s jeans. “I admit I was still frightened. I’ve been hoping that…well, that you would be the brave one. And tell me.”

Crowley can do nothing but moan as Aziraphale coaxes his hips up, sliding the jeans off. The sofa is soft beneath him, Aziraphale’s hands leaving a pleasant burn in their wake. He gasps as Aziraphale’s lips press against his hipbone.

“I want to make love to you now, if that’s alright.” Crowley stares at him, pupils blown wide. Aziraphale smiles kindly and moves up to kiss his lips again. “I want to show you. Please.”

Crowley can hardly manage a nod, but he gets it out, and Aziraphale’s answering smile could light the Earth for another 6,000 years.

They lose the last of their clothes quickly. Crowley is intoxicated with the feel of Aziraphale’s skin, his touch, his lips. He moans, long and low as Aziraphale presses into him, the angel dropping their foreheads together for a moment, breathing heavily. He pulls away far enough to meet Crowley’s eyes as he rocks into him, slowly, over and over again. Crowley can do nothing but hold on, clutch to any part of Aziraphale he can reach, mouth murmuring any praise he can think of as Aziraphale’s thrusts grow quicker.

“I love you,” Aziraphale moans. One hand props himself up, the other squeezes Crowley’s hip. “Oh, how I love you.” Crowley holds him tight, thrusting up to meet him, eyes locked with Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale feels so good inside of him. He can’t get enough of the angel’s skin, the taste of him.

Aziraphale’s movements begin to grow more frantic, hips moving in small, shallow thrusts as he drops his forehead to Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley digs his nails into Aziraphale’s back, trying, endlessly, to get the angel closer to him.

It seems to last an eternity, but not nearly long enough. The heat builds between them, Aziraphale’s movements growing more frenzied. Crowley arches against him, a moan tearing from his throat as he comes. Aziraphale pants his name as he follows and drops atop Crowley, tilting his head so his breath tickles the demon’s neck.

Crowley holds him tighter, suddenly inexplicably afraid the angel will try to leave. But Aziraphale just settles, miracling a blanket with a sloppy snap of his fingers. His curls cling to his damp forehead and he smiles at Crowley, eyes bright. “My dear.”

Crowley presses closer, breathing shaky. “Aziraphale.” He doesn’t know what to say but feels he should say _something_. They’ve known each other 6,000 years and he’s never felt a need to fill the silence before, but there’s so many words he’s not said, so much praise he’s not given, but all he can think is the angel’s name, repeating in his head in an endless loop.

“I know.” Aziraphale kisses his forehead. “I know. Do you…do you know?” he asks, a hint of worry in his voice. “Can you Feel it? Feel how much I-“

“ _Yes_ ,” Crowley hisses. “Yes, angel, yes.” He clutches him tighter.

Aziraphale seems to relax; Crowley hadn’t even realized he’d tensed. “Oh good, very good.” He tugs a pliant Crowley closer, so the demon is resting against his chest. “I need you to understand, you see. You should know.”

“I do,” he mumbles. His limbs are tingly and heavy, and he thinks he could lie right here for the next century and still be content.

Several soft piano notes fill the air, familiar, as a woman’s voice softly begins to sing from the radio.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says against Crowley’s ear. “It’s your favorite Christmas song.”

Crowley holds the angel tighter, breathing him in. “I think I may need a new favorite,” he says at last. “Or at least, amend my answer to the last verse.”

He can feel Aziraphale’s smile. Crowley’s eyes flutter closed, and he breathes in deep; the scent of sweat and the air after a springtime rain and old books. Aziraphale. His Aziraphale.

Properly his. And he is Aziraphale’s. _Thank you_ , he thinks to Aziraphale, to God, he doesn’t know who, but he’s so incredibly grateful, so humbled that he’s allowed to have this. To love, and be loved in return.

Crowley rather liked Christmas, and now that he’s starting the first day of the rest of his life during it, he imagines he’ll continue liking it for a very, _very_ long time.


End file.
